Mr Beats by Dre

With his Beats by Dre wrapped around his dome, Toby is looking straight Batman villain: you merely adopted sheep-consumerism Toby was born into it, moulded by it…. Toby recently forked over $399.00 to JB Hifi for a pair of oversized bass tweeters. Toby answers the inevitable question: if Chet Faker plays in the woods, but no one drops the bass, does anyone actually rinse to it? Probably not, but as Toby navigates the obstacle course of public image, he will smash through the wall of pretentiousness and nose dives into the pit of brand-slutting wankery. Judges give him a perfect 10. Bravo, cunt.

Toby habitually tongues the gooch of misguided fashion: fake LeBron jersey, a pair of jean cut-offs, a fresh pair of New Balance “fashion-sneakers” and his pair of red Dre’s. The every-cunt store called, they want their prototype back.

Toby kick, pushes and coasts towards UWA. His chicken penne arms are stabilising his torso which beams out as a beacon of faux-NBA knowledge. The sort of cat to watch the playoffs but sneak into the Wesley College basketball courts and throw bricks in a manner that would make Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s rain-dance look like a thunderstorm of J-shooting swagger. His 1-foot plastic skateboard can’t even ollie.

After Uni, Toby skates like a prick towards Fitness First. He is going to pump some iron to the sounds of the Bag Raiders. He lurks around the free weights rack while messaging a girl from Uni that wants to suck off his dad’s postcode while massaging the soon-to-drop ballsack of his grandfather’s will. He nods to the bass and semi-twerks while he busts 50kg squats. The kind of desperate weights-twerking that would help Billy Ray Cyrus sleep well at night, knowing that his daughter wasn’t the biggest shame-popping fuckstick.

After his weights session, Toby heads down to Grant St Cottesloe for a dip in the ocean. He removes his jersey but continues to rock his Dres. He scans the beach for tight bodied babes and gives them the Western Suburbs nod of recognition. Arctic Monkey’s filter into his ears while he works on a tan. He proudly spreads the cheeks of white-boy cool, while apologetically giving the shame of brand-named-sluttery a greasy reach-a-round to the point it explodes all over his painfully crafted public image.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?